Fear of Flying
by mousers mary
Summary: Dan discovers he can fly. This isn't actually a good thing
1. Chapter 1

. . .

This is not the first time it's happened. He can admit that now, _has_ to admit it, because right now there isn't any way to wash this away and just pretend it's something it's not. Not with the way the wind is whipping through his cape while his feet are dangling twenty feet off the ground. Dan finds himself thinking about all those times he had rationalized it away, when he still had that luxury of denial.

(_There was that time in '74, when that punk kid connected his kick to your gut. Remember that? How you_ flew _back, and how hard you had hit that wall_? _The kid wasn't _that _strong. Or how about earlier. Remember that first time you flew Archie by piloting him from the steering column jacked in on the roof? You lost your footing, but didn't slip. Admit it. It happened. Mom was always so worried about your infatuation with flying. Maybe there was something to that…_)

It does make a sick kind of sense.

He watches the chaos below with an odd detachment. It feels almost like watching a film; he's nothing more than an observer, separate from all the madness. _Fight or flight. Ha. _He vaguely wonders why he isn't more upset about this.

The smoke is starting to clear in the streets now, finally, and his brain seems like it's ready to catch up to reality. From his perspective above it all, he can see a couple remaining stragglers; spray painting walls or setting fire to empty trashcans, all that's left of the straining crowd of protesters, dispersed only moments before.

He had said, "This is a nightmare."

True to his name, The Comedian had laughed in his face. And that's when it happened. The other man never saw it, had his back turned at the right moment, thank goodness for small mercies he supposed, but still Dan wished he could disappear, too. Blink out of sight to avoid further humiliation. When The Comedian noticed Dan was missing, he made a show of trying to find him, hand shielding his eyes as if blocking them from the sun all while making exaggerated shoulder turns. He quickly lost interest in that game, though, and simply began hurling a variety of sexually degrading insults in Archie's vicinity, apparently under the impression Nite Owl just couldn't handle things like riots and protests and no longer having the public's trust, and had just scurried away to the safety of the ship like some kind of coward. He couldn't be bothered with cowards, he'd called out. Dan isn't proud to admit how relieved he felt when the man slipped down a random alleyway shouting after some punk kid.

Dan sighs. Tries scissor kicking his feet as if treading water. His body stays frustratingly fixed in place against the stars. He tries moving his arms; he cycles through a variety of swim strokes, all to no avail.

Panic sets in when he realizes he can't navigate on his own. He has no control over anything, let alone himself. Then, the lightheadedness again. The dizziness had happened on the ground right before, and Dan was sure then he was going to pass out. He disgorges his stomach contents; falls. He knows he's back on the ground when he realizes his nose is in his own vomit.

He somehow manages to find enough energy to crawl back to the ship. His costume feels claustrophobic and he can't get it off fast enough.

. . .

Despite not feeling well, Dan decides against going straight home. Ironically, being up in the air—confined inside the ship, something over which he has complete control—helps. He hasn't flown in Archie in street clothes in years, not since back when he was still new and Dan was working out all the kinks before officially commissioning him for duty. It feels oddly subversive, even though he knows that's completely ridiculous.

Then all at once, he decides his coffee tastes off. It isn't too long before he has completely dismantled the whole coffee making apparatus; he spends the next couple of hours cleaning parts that haven't been touched by human hands for years. Once that task is complete, he wonders what other long neglected projects are in dire need of his attention.

. . .

He wasn't going to go over tonight, but he'd _insisted, _and if there's one person Dan could never let down, it was Hollis Mason. Dan knows the old man means well, invited him over the on the pretense of watching the game—catch up, have a few beers, no big deal, right?—when Dan knew Hollis was really offering his ear. He knew the old man was concerned. He had called over to the house often enough in recent weeks, after Dan had more or less shut himself inside ever since _it _passed into law, busying himself with all manner of household cleaning and repairing projects. What Hollis didn't know what just how rarely Dan's feet actually touched solid ground anymore.

He stands at the threshold holding the front door open for a long moment. He just stares out at the street. Then takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. Yes, he can do this. It's just a walk. It's something people do all day, every day, and it's no big deal. _Get a grip Dreiberg, Jesus. _

He takes each step one at a time; carefully, with his full and complete attention focused solely on each one. He tries his best not to let his mind wander. It's not as easy as it should be. He makes every attempt at not showing any outward sign of frustration whenever he starts to feel that telltale lightness in his head and in his feet. He has no concept of how well he manages this.

It takes a half an hour, but he does get there, and when Hollis Mason—the original Nite Owl—opens the door, he does his best not to look like he's just completed some major goddamn accomplishment.

. . .

At first, he declines the beer. He's just not sure how well he'd be able to tolerate alcohol, but Hollis has a kind of natural charm—Hollywood, like Paul Newman or Gene Kelly—and soon the stories are flowing, and so are the beers. He's well into his third before he even realizes the TV was never on, and kinda wonders if there even was a football game tonight. It doesn't really matter, though. He's just sitting here, listening to his mentor's tales of adventure. The Glory Days. He loves this, it reminds him of when he was a kid and how he could never get enough of this hero stuff.

He's feeling buzzed. He tells Hollis he should get going, before he has too much. When he still has the capacity to see himself home.

Hollis winks and says, "All right, kid."

They part the way they always do, small talk peppered with promises to this again soon, and as he heads down the stairs, he realizes they never did discuss anything remotely close to how he'd been faring since his government mandated retirement. Maybe it's for the best.

He feels kind of like he's been let off the hook.

He also shouldn't have had so much to drink. He tries to take those same careful steps, one foot in front of the other, fully present for each one, but he knows he's stumbling and tripping over his feet; not all of it due to inebriation.

He ducks behind a dumpster and retches.

. . .


	2. Chapter 2

. . .

It feels like he's on a bed of nails. His head is pounding, and sweaty hair sticks uncomfortably to the back of his neck.

When he opens his eyes, his vision is blurry. He's lost his glasses somewhere along the way, but he has no trouble making out where he is.

Gravel bites into his palms as he pushes himself up into a sitting position. He swings his legs around and dangles his feet over the edge of the rooftop. He isn't too worried; he somehow managed to find his own building. He wishes he knew how he got here.

He envisions himself from the viewpoint of some random bystander, watching in disbelief as an unconscious man hurtles through the air. It isn't funny. It's actually pretty goddamn terrifying, but he laughs until his sides hurt.

. . .

The next morning he finds his eyeglasses sitting innocently on his nightstand.

. . .

A week later, he's washing the windows. Keeping busy usually helps, so he's been doing a lot of that. Something's not right though, because he's feeling dizzy and faint. Then his feet give out from under him and he finds himself falling upward.

"Shit," he says when his back bumps up against the ceiling. He lets his rag and bucket drop to the floor. At least that's another project, another mess to clean. He's not sure what set this one off. It takes a moment, but he does put it together. He'd been listening to the TV. He let his mind wander while the newscaster read a story about a recent string of robberies.

He decides he isn't going to listen to the news anymore.

He hasn't perfected the art of falling yet, but the inside of the house has walls to kick off from, and he is able to propel his way over to the staircase. He grabs hold of the banister and slowly works his way down. His feet alight on one of the steps, and he lets out a long breath when they stay there.

He doubles over and does his best not to throw up.

He narrows his eyes at the television. He knows how he is going to keep himself busy for the next half hour.

. . .

It doesn't take long before two young men show up. They park their car in front Dan's house; make quick work of hauling off the television set and the AM/FM radio. The TV set is too large; it won't fit comfortably in the trunk. The two men argue about how best to fit it inside, but they do manage it eventually. The car peels out, leaving behind the smell of burnt rubber. Watching them reminds Dan of the way criminals take off when they know they are just inches from being caught. He crinkles his nose at that. It's not exactly an appropriate analogy when he was the one to set the stuff out in the first place.

There isn't any evidence the television had ever been there, except for the sheet of paper marked "FREE!" left on the sidewalk. From the safety of his living room window, Dan watches as the wind catches it, sends it dancing down the empty street. He closes himself off from the world with the pull of the curtain.

. . .

Music helps. He plays his records constantly now that the television is gone.

He plays his jazz when he is doing busywork, but he plays classical music when he can't sleep. The classical seems to have the calming effect he desperately needs, but it seems less effective at keeping him grounded. He's pretty sure he doesn't actually stay on the bed during the deepest parts of sleep.

He convinces himself the grooves of the vinyl are going to wear out before too long, and then he'll have nothing to listen to. It's a stupid thing to worry about, but he's fixating on it.

He finally decides to call the record store. He asks if they would be willing to have someone come and deliver a few replacements for him. The kid on the other end seems to have no patience for him, brusquely tells him that yes, they could set aside whichever records he wished, and no, they would not _deliver. _

He's disappointed, but not really all that surprised.

He slumps down into the sofa. Stares at the telephone for a long moment. He can hear his mother's soft voice in his memories; how she always worried. Always reminded him to keep his feet on the ground, and not to get too self-absorbed. He wishes he could just pick up that phone and call her. He has no one to talk to about this.

There is a rock in his stomach. He's grateful for that weight, focuses on it. Anything that anchors is good, even as the dam breaks.

. . .

He's eating a lot more now.

During one of his cleaning sprees, he'd come across an old wooden box full of his mother's old recipes. He'd decided he'd try his hand at making at least one everyday.

Cooking isn't as difficult as he'd always believed. He used to joke during college that he could burn water, but he's finding it isn't too different from engineering. Just follow the instructions and assemble the parts in the right order, and you're good to go.

He's gained quite a bit of weight, but he's grounded now. He still doesn't leave the house, but that's okay. Hollis comes over to his house now for their weekly visits. The old man brings his own beer, but Dan abstains. He manages to convince the other man to take home some of whatever it is he's been cooking up, and it becomes a sort of game. Hollis politely declines, but is easily convinced.

. . .

This becomes his life, and that's okay.

. . .

One day Rorschach stops by. Tells him of The Comedian's murder.

After his old partner leaves, Dan stands on the sidewalk outside his front door.

He finds he can't fly away even if he wanted to.

. . .


End file.
